


Making Dreams Come True

by Quality_Street_Sin



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Hair Braiding, Hair Washing, Hair-pulling, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Rare Pairings, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 09:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14185623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quality_Street_Sin/pseuds/Quality_Street_Sin
Summary: It was unclear who started the kiss. All he knew was how much he loved it; the warmth and hungry motion of it— and how quickly it broke apart, abandoned for a mad scramble of both their fingers at his belt.In which Lalli spends some time with the boy of his dreams.





	Making Dreams Come True

It was considered rude to intrude on dream-havens. But this wasn’t Lalli’s haven, not really- it seemed to just be a dream.

There were a few tells. Behind the gossamer wall that separated dreamworlds, there were no trees. This was not a landscape; it was a room- it looked small and sparsely furnished.

Reynir could see his reflection.

No. His image. The red hair and long limbs were unmistakably his, but the real Reynir wasn’t on his knees. Nor did he have his hair loose.

His heart stuttered. Generally, it was best to avoid such thoughts about the team, because it was just about impossible to be alone in their tiny vehicle, and Reynir couldn’t really be outside unsupervised—but that didn’t mean he didn’t  _have_ those thoughts.

It felt perverse to watch, and it probably was, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He’d pushed these fantasies to the edges of his psyche, and now that he wasn’t responsible for bringing the topic to light, he was defenseless.

Other-Reynir, ever so slightly blurred by the veil, seemed far more competent than should be possible. He watched every movement intently—the rhythmic bobbing, the flashes he saw of his own tongue—and wished, desperately, to emulate them. How wonderful it would be, if that were his own body…

He didn't let his eyes linger on Lalli. That was a little too much—he rarely got to see the other boy emote, and the bliss on his face was a glorious novelty. It had to be seen sidelong, like looking at the sun.

Reynir allowed himself the indulgence of watching his bunkmate’s body, though. His eyes were drawn to the smooth motion of Lalli’s hips, the shifting muscles in his abdomen. Every line of lean muscle engraved itself in his memory, caught in just-shy-of-frantic motion. There was a hungry, animal edge there, and Reynir was enchanted by the idea of facing it head-on, yielding to it…

Suddenly, horribly, he found himself meeting his own green eyes. Other-Reynir had turned to face him, pulling back from Lalli, but before either could react, the wall of mist thickened and they faded completely from view

Lalli was awake.

Soon, Reynir was too. He didn't really remember his dreams, most of the time, but other people's seemed to be preserved perfectly. He tried not to think about it—he needed to devote that mental energy to finding an innocent explanation for suddenly needing his sheets washed.  

It was just a dream, he reminded himself. It didn't necessarily mean anything.

But he desperately hoped that it did.

* * *

The outing was over, and Lalli was going to die.

He was going to die in one of two ways—either because he’d have to make eye contact with the man himself, or because he’d have to run away into the forest to avoid the first scenario.

They’d managed to find some books, and Sigrun had joyously punched him about it, which probably meant they’d done well. But that also meant going back early and… god.

He’d had just enough time to catch a flash of red hair at the edge of his dream, before everything had dissolved as he was shaken awake.  _That_  had been horrible. He was very much aware that his dreams weren’t real, but his body didn’t seem to be in on that. Reynir was… probably clueless, like he was about everything else, but it was hard not to wonder. What he  _thought_. Because he’d definitely seen.

It shouldn’t have mattered so much, really. Lalli didn’t need Reynir—the other mage was completely untrained, and, effectively, an unnecessary addition to the team. And his hair was dumb, and way too long to be practical, and on paper, Lalli really shouldn’t care. What Reynir thought of him shouldn’t matter—

Except, it did. Because as ridiculously stupid as Reynir’s hair was, Lalli still sometimes felt compelled to touch it, and he’d never quite managed to grow used to him, like he could with other people.

Lalli was perpetually hyper-aware; he took in everything available to his senses. Filtering things out was a conscious effort. It was what made him a good scout. But it also made him vulnerable here, because he  _noticed_  things nobody else did.  

He noticed the particular interplay of sunlight and orange-red hair. The pink, unabashed softness of certain lips; the magnetic urge to brush them with his own. Reynir was the only person he still saw rendered in that snap-shot detail, and it drove him  _mad._

The tank came into view, hunkered down in its clearing. It was set up as a camp, a transformation that could be made with impressive speed.

Lalli followed the others in for decontamination, and froze. Just inside the doorway, Reynir was flipping through a book. He met Lalli’s eyes, and blushed nearly the same shade as his hair.

Oh, shit. 

Lalli made a concerted effort to stare at the wall while he was stripped of his outer layers, and decontamination spray worked through his hair. He kept steady eye contact with the wooden paneling, even when he heard the sing-song sweeping of Icelandic.

  
Once Lalli had been sheathed of potential contaminants, Mikkel had a rushed conversation with Reynir in Icelandic, and Lalli caved, peeking over his shoulder to see what all the fuss was about. Reynir was holding up a copy of one of the book’s pages, the format recognisable as a recipe. He pointed to some of the listed ingredients with a long finger, then gestured towards the door.

Lalli didn’t really  _get_ it until everyone filed out, leaving him behind. On her way back outside, Sigrun paused, pointed at Lalli, then mimed the same head-on-hands gesture Emil used to try and tell him to sleep. Lalli nodded.

He had  _not_ been looking forward to this confrontation.

Reynir looked down at him, with a small, frustratingly ambiguous smile. Was he  _taunting_  him? This could all just be some sort of blackmail—something that could cross a language barrier, because it wasn’t like they were  _friends —_

Lalli caught the movement of his fingers in the corner of his eye; Reynir was picking at the little leather strap that held his braid together. Still smiling—looking Lalli in the eye, reinforcing the statement—he let down his hair.  

It was gorgeous, like that; in the candlelight of the closed shutters, it seemed to glow in kind with the flames, framing the sharp cut of his jaw. So much time in plaits magnified the natural waves, and suddenly Lalli was preoccupied with the possibility of  _pulling_ it —

It was unclear who started the kiss. All he knew was how much he loved it; the warmth and hungry motion of it—and how quickly it broke apart, abandoned for a mad scramble of both their fingers at his belt.

* * *

Reynir had spent his life doing handiwork; sewing and weaving and making things—he made quick work of the simple fastenings of Lalli’s tented trousers, the buttons of his underwear. Anticipation burned hot in his chest.

The dim lighting prevented him from making out the finer details.  Instead, he explored in other ways. The first tentative brush of his tongue against the head had Lalli fisting a hand in his hair, tight enough to be just shy of pulling. Reynir took note, then went further, carefully mouthing as much as he could, delving into the taste and texture with his tongue. Something not quite like sweat, or salt, the strange ridged feeling of prominent veins beneath skin, sliding past as he pulled his head back, mimicking the actions of his dreamworld doppelganger.

He was unsure what to do with his hands; one pawed desperately at the buttons of his own leggings, but the other was still free—he wrapped it around the spare length he couldn’t fit in his mouth, then changed tactics, palming and toying with Lalli’s balls, stroking his thumb across the skin.

When he could, he’d glance upwards—for confirmation, the occasional affirming nod, or soft, affirmative sound, prompting him back to work.

Soon, though, Lalli took charge- first with reactions to the boundless enthusiasm—tugging on handfuls of Reynir’s hair, sending a burning tingle through his scalp—then guiding him, thin fingers splaying along the sides of his head, holding him steady for the roll of Lalli’s hips.

Reynir broke free, momentarily, gasping—it was surprisingly difficult to breathe, that way—and looked up from his place on his knees. He’d been denied the affirmation of moaning, of the sort of shameless display he’d been performing himself—and he needed a sign of approval.

Lalli demonstrated this by intertwining his hands with Reynir’s hair, then  _pulling_ him back into motion, sending a throb through the skin of his scalp. Reynir finally freed himself from his leggings, and all but pinned on his knees, began to stroke his own cock.

Lalli didn’t seem to like that—he batted the hand away, irritated, almost, and Reynir apologised with a fluttering motion of his tongue, before withdrawing a little to focus on the head; teasing the divot in the hot flesh, his freed hand clinging to Lalli’s thigh.

The next big break for breathing, he switched. He mouthed the cool globes of Lalli’s testicles, using his hands to stroke along the length of his shaft. His own cock was horribly neglected; it throbbed for want of stimulation, every motion of his mouth and hands only feeding the needy feeling.

Perhaps, soon, he’d be allowed to redirect his attention. But for now, his priorities lay elsewhere.

He retraced his steps, charting back to the movements that got the most reaction; working the muscles of his mouth and swallowing a gag when Lalli’s cock grazed the back of his throat. It was a wholly novel, and surprisingly pleasurable sensation.

And it got a rise out of his partner; the soft quick-huff breathing bloomed into an unrestrained moan—a stunning sound; it made something hot and primal twist in the pit of Reynir’s stomach, huddle down between his hip bones—there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to hear it again.

And he did. He began to understand the patterns of it, the suction he could build with the seal of his lips—and put that knowledge to use.

Lalli guided him through the process, a firm but gentle hand, and the next time Reynir’s fingers wandered, he haughtily allowed it. It felt every bit like a reward.

* * *

Lalli clutched strands of red for dear life, anchoring himself to reality—Reynir was talentless but passionate, and he barely had time to think it between the twinned sensations of his tight lips and toying fingers, the intensity of it all.

Reynir kept gazing up at him between strokes like some loving, longing thing, all big blue-green eyes and tufty curls. There was an odd innocence to it, almost; as if he could still be somehow ruined —  _claimed_.

Lalli didn’t want to share him —

To share the sensation of his tongue tracing along the ridge on the underside of his cock, those grasping, clinging,  _needy_ hands, roving over his body like they were trying to  _chart_ it—that unabashed desperation, blooming out before him, begging to be taken. Lalli huffed the boy’s name, the only word he could form, and felt the response ghost around his hypersensitive skin.

They were moving fast—the motion of Reynir’s hand on his own dick was frantic, almost, as if they were running out of time, and they probably, horribly, were —

The worry was wiped from his thoughts within seconds; something hot and primal was fireworking though his brain, running through every nerve in his body like the zing of electricity; oh how he wanted  _more_  —

Reynir finished first, surprisingly, with a convulsive gasp and a splatter of warmth across his thighs, messy and unguarded. Lalli allowed the man a moment of panting before winding his fingers into those crimson tresses and yanking his head forwards again, bringing attention to the desperate, building heat in his cock, his hips doing most of the work now.

It wasn’t long after that, because once Reynir had gathered himself enough to start making an effort again, he did so even more than before—he dragged his tongue around the girth of Lalli’s cock, fluttering it as he did so, each move delicate and planned—something gathered, like the inrush of air before the sound of an explosion, and one last move sent him rising towards the surge of release.  

Lalli shuddered and curled over, fighting the urge to thrust deeper as the first great gush left him. Reynir jerked abruptly back, as if, despite all his efforts, he was surprised by the end result.

The movement left him exposed to the next spurt; Lalli was too weak-kneed with the wild glory of it all to be much help.

“Ah, _fokk,_ ” Reynir gasped. He didn’t sound particularly distressed about it, but some had gotten in his hair.

The beautiful red strands were gummed together in places, marring the silky waves. It wasn’t too much _,_ but it would be difficult to get out if it dried.

Soon, Lalli wobbled to attention and dragged the wooden tub out of storage, filled it with water. Reynir had already dug a bar of soap out of his sparse pack, and held it triumphantly aloft.

They washed first, quickly as they could. Lalli did it because on some level, he felt as though such experiences showed up on his skin. This one had, in fact; the marks of it were red on his neck and collarbones, dotted across his lower abdomen, each rose-coloured bloom the prelude to a bruise.

The scent of the soap—warm, soft, lilac and lanolin—sank into their skin. Lalli noted it; they smelled the same.

The bulk of the work could be done after that—when they were both in clean clothes, and it wasn’t obvious what they’d just done. Lalli led the process, despite how awkward it was—when they were both standing, Reynir was at least a head taller than him, and it was in Lalli’s best interest to get him back on the floor.

In water, Reynir’s hair drifted freely, forming loose, coppery coils. Lalli, as always, was tempted to run his fingers through it.

* * *

Lalli had exceedingly gentle hands. He could pull the comb down the entire length of Reynir’s hair without even slightly tugging at the tangles.

Reynir relaxed into the touch as Lalli scrubbed small circles across his scalp. The water was cool, but not uncomfortably so. The tank was well insulated, and it had settled to the temperature of the room.  

Lalli cradled his head, gently easing it upward to access the nape of his neck. There was such a delicious vulnerability in it, being so much at his mercy. If not for his exhaustion, and their limited time, Reynir would have asked to go another round.

Lalli took longer than he would have himself, perhaps out of an experience, but perhaps —and how wonderful the notion was—just to make it nicer. Reynir had seen Lalli comb his own hair, before, and it seemed to be a process mostly comprised of wrenching a comb through it and hoping none of the teeth would snap.

When Lalli had finished combing through his hair- the motion so soothingly repetitive that Reynir  was on the verge of dozing off- he rinsed it, pouring mugfuls of water through it, gently guiding Reynir to tilt his head back, so water could be poured back from his hairline, dangerously close to overspilling onto his face and shirt.

When that was done, Lalli twisted his hair to ring out most of the water, then squeezed it as dry as possible with a towel. Reynir was ready to be done then, give up on the intimacy of it, and take over, but he was not allowed to. Lalli let him get up from the floor, but only long enough to escort him through to the sleeping area, so Lalli could sit on one of the bunks. Reynir sat on the floor with his legs out, nestled between Lalli’s knees.

It had been an incredibly long time since he’d had his hair done by anyone else, and he was so caught up in the tangle of sensation that he briefly failed to notice the difference.

Lalli was still braiding his hair, but not the way he would have done it.

* * *

It was easier to braid like this. Grandma had taught him how, before he learnt the ostensibly more simple pattern. Besides, this took slightly longer to get neat, and he wanted to prolong  this part of the experience as long as possible. And this style of braiding was more practical. It meant that less of the hair hung free, making it less of a danger in battle.

Reynir’s hair was different from his. It was far softer, smoother, like silk, and he greatly enjoyed running it through his fingers. Occasionally, he would have to gently tug Reynir’s head one way or the other, as  he was overcome with the boneless relaxation that would have seen other partners cuddling.

Even Reynir, with his greater awareness of Lalli’s personal bubble, would list towards one leg every so often. Without words to explain, Lalli relied on actions to get his message across. If that meant jerking away and hissing when boundaries were overstepped, so be it.

They found a compromise. He could allow the clinging warmth of his fingers on his ankle, in exchange for the knowledge of how much more he wanted to touch. It was just another shallow part of the game they seemed to be establishing—A play on devotion.

When he finished off the braid, they were both sad it was over. Reynir tilted his head back, and  smiled up at him. It took him a minute to get the message- they had gotten away with it.

* * *

Later in the evening, when the entire list of obscure, winter-growing ingredients had been chased down and turned into a stew, everybody huddled around the small fire. They were safe for now- They had been extremely lucky.

Reynir and Lalli had made a concerted effort to sit apart from each other, just in case they accidentally implied anything.

He was still adjusting to the way his hair was braided. He hadn't realised, but it cropped out a little bit of his field of vision, when his fringe was loose. However, it also gave him somewhere to hide.  Right now, even in the twilight, he felt like his face was the extreme of an open book.

Lalli, as always, was perfectly stoic. Reynir envied him.

Just as he was beginning to relax—to think that perhaps nobody noticed—Sigrun leaned over and clicked her fingers in front of his face.

“Next time, tie your hair back, Freckles,” she said, clearly using the sound of someone else's translation. “You're going to waste all the water.”

  
  


  
  


  
  
  


 

 

 


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